


The Crack Fick

by RavenRed



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: But like for fridges, Coffee, Defenestration, Poodle!Alcor, it was all a dream, or was it?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenRed/pseuds/RavenRed
Summary: A soon to be collection of whatever crack I come up with.
Kudos: 2





	The Crack Fick

“Hello there! Though I am remiss to say it, there is no crack fic. You have indeed been deceived. Now, I’m sure you’re quite the busy fellow, no? So I would suggest that you merely click upon the x button that will likely be at the top right of your browser.”

“No, please don’t touch that, please, there is nothing behind my Star War Return of the Jedi photo signature edition with a studio licensed custom frame! I beg of thee! DON’T!”

You touch it, and after the few gratifying moments in which you see a crack fic behind the shattered hopes and dreams of the kindly man behind, you realize, you realize that you have just mercilessly destroyed possibly the most defining piece of artistry in the past millennium. 

You take a few moments of dreadful silence, putting a dum dum into your mouth because it looks cool, and take a contemplative stance, you are certain the old man will understand your wordless apology.

You remove the dum dum, it tasted terrible.

Though the elderly man sobs wildly behind you, you ignore him, for you have taken this lonely path, and now… you must finish it.

Your name is William L. Raft, a well known anarchist whose likes are ping-pong, 2289 rock band Ellon Mars and the gays and irrationally large chickens.

Above your bed lies a poster of Bart Maso, a jazz artist from the 2160s. You keep his poster so you may hide your Ellon Mars posters from the judgmental eyes of the dark world.

You remove your skin, as you do every Sunday, for it must be fixed every Sunday, revealing yourself to be Alcor the Dreambender. 

Picking up a magazine which had previously lounged lazily upon the edge of your desk, you are reminded that you have been voted the most eligible demon for the 678th time in a row, a solid 5,623 votes ahead of the only other humanoid ‘male’ demon, Sathrenel, who lay a mere 562 votes ahead of Brian.

How disrespectful, you’re fairly certain all three of you are ace/aro. 

Quickly burning the offending magazine, you pick up your arms, (which you had dropped earlier last night while toying with them) and put them back on the counter where they belong.

You think now would be a good time to terrorize some annoying cultist, so you accept a summons you got 97 years ago.

You arrive in a cold dark dungeon, it is filled with skeletons.

Panicked, you quickly check the long perished skeletons.

You breathe a sigh of relief, they’re all adults, no kid sacrifices. Whew!  
Still, that’s a lot of bony bois, you wonder why so many humans died here. Would really suck if they summoned him having been trapped in this damp dark cavern and waited the rest of their life for help that never came.

Good thing you don’t know, and can carry on without remorse.

You parse through the area, taking in every detail with your big big brain, attempting to figure out the slightest point of interest… nope! Nothing, god this place sucks.

Before answering the next summons, you retrieve the Snoop Dawg memorial bust that lay drenched in cobwebs utop what you assume to be the former cults leader’s body.  
————OwO—

Your next summons appeared equally boring, so you decided to be a poodle just to spice things up.

Upon being summoned into the circle, the cultists begin whispering amongst themselves, perhaps fouling themselves from fear.

“Aww, aren’t you such a cute little guy! Hey buddy, can you go get Alcor for me? I need him to unlock the secret knowledge I desire!”

Reminding yourself you are a dog, and do not know you’re being patronized, you bark in apparent compliance. But, in what you believe to be a cruel twist of fate, you bring up a contract with your paw, this’ll get ‘im.

“Oh! You must be Alcor then? Well alright! Why not. So, in exchange for this extremely rare fridgemaster 2000, I want to know…” he pauses, tearing up at the mere thought of letting his glorious fridgemaster 2000 go. You understand, as you too, have gone through such pain. You recall your own fridgemaster 2000, it had stuck with you for so many years until it’s eventual departure. Tragic.

You summon a podium, a very small poodle sized one of course, and stand upon your hind legs, you prepare to give a eulogy.

“Arf, bow wow arf bark. Woof bark bark arf bow wow?” You point to the great fridgemaster 2000, which now lies dormant in its grave. “Bow wow arf bark arf grrrrr, arf bow wow.” You see the man sobs even louder than before. As he should, this speech is gold. “Art arf, bark bark bow wow, arf, arf bow wow bark arf. Ahmen.” 

The few moments of silence make the eventual applause so much grander. 

You motion for the man to continue with his earlier deal proposal. 

“Sniff, o- of course. In return fo- for my fridge- fridgemaster 2000, I want the, sniff, The ultimate taco recipe..” You pause, this. This is what he’s giving up such a treasure for? This?! A noble goal indeed, you nod in understanding, holding you paw out.

He takes it, you shake. “Mister sir Alcor Sir, please take good care of my fridgemaster 2000, please.” You nod “Arf” saluting the brave brave man, you finally depart.  
————————-

Returning home you carefully toss the fridgemaster out the widow, you already have one, and fuck that guy anyways.

Grabbing your katana from its place in your arms and placing it on your back you decide it’s a good time to go about your daily whatnots. Like coffee and sadness.

Coffee first.

Arriving at the aptly named Anarchist’s favorite coffee, you find the stares of the other foolish mortals to be glued to you. Perhaps it is your impeccable style that glues their eyes to your form.

You place a hundred dollars on the table, “Give me the usual.” You say, comforting yourself with the knowledge that you know the barista and will undoubtedly get your order.

Hm, you feel a little lighter than you usually do in your human form. Looking down, you immediately noticed the source of the problem, you are floating.

And on fire.

Also you’re still a poodle.

An Alpooodle one might say. Oh, you slay yourself.

Tragically, you’re afraid barista Colin will have to deal though, you’re far too embarrassed to correct your order from ‘the usual’ to ‘enough caffeine to kill a man’.

A few minutes later and Colin seems to have gotten over the fact that you are a floating satanic poodle, he has quickly and wordlessly brought you a bowl of dog food.

It is Hills pet nutrition. You can’t blame the barista for not knowing the countless problems this brand brings, but you do wonder why you haven’t gotten around to destroying the brand already.

Oh well, something to do for Sunday you suppose.

Perhaps you could visit them in this form, A demonic floating poodle could scare them straight, that and the demolished wreckage of their former workplace.

Ah you notice, you have already gotten sad. But this is no time for sadness! You can’t just skip ahead in the schedule like that! You haven’t even had coffee yet..

Looking over to the barista, who is skillfully pretending you don’t exist, you question the morality of just serving yourself.

But then again, you have already paid.

You serve yourself. The Cappuccino you make would be banned in several countries.

You decide to take your time with it, moments like these should be savored.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Sip.

Gulping the rest of the damning beverage, you yeet yourself out the window and kindly give a few oncoming customers poodle middle fingers before collapsing in on yourself.  
——————————

Now within the mindscape, you revel in the knowledge that you have given all of them something they’ll remember for the rest of their life.

A nightmare approaches, it’s boppin pretty wildly. Perhaps it is listening to Bede’s theme. The intricacies of the wondrous beats of Bede’s theme are to few ears privy. You find yourself happy knowing that others cannot quite tell why they like boppin to Bede’s theme.

For another time perhaps, your nightmare appears to have something to say.

“Lord Alcor, perhaps it is a good time to wake up, no?”  
—————————-  
Awaking from your terrible dream and looking over to your sister, you, Dipper Crawthorne, have had a terrible night's sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Boo-eth


End file.
